Agape in the bejewelled capital, where every dog has his side dish

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Jocasta and I have been visiting New York, trying to flog our
various wares. If Gore Vidal is right, and America is the new Rome,
then we are two Thracians, wandering around, looking for
appropriate spots to prostrate ourselves.

Jocasta wants to find a theatre company that will put on her
plays. I want to find some radio stations that will let me watch
what they do. It's tough when you are in Rome, and you hale from
the edge of the empire. People would be happy to meet us, I'm sure,
if only we could get through to them.

"Maybe things would go better," Jocasta says five days in, "if
we changed out of these hessian tunics, and got ourselves some
flashy Roman togas. We've got to try and fit in."

As Thracians we marvel at the shimmering capital, and the speed
at which people operate here at the centre of the empire. We try to
copy their way of speaking. It's "real" good, not "really"; "five
x", not "five times"; and "two-thousand-five" instead of "two
thousand and five". It really is an eye-opener: they are so
spectacularly busy they just don't have time for those extra
syllables.

Even the children are flat out, forced to call it "math" and not
"maths". They'd love to add that final "s" but, real sorry, just
don't have the time.

In the park, I spot a sign advising a "No Thru Road". I imagine
the poor park supervisor, up to his neck in work, playing his part
in the running of the empire: "I'm just not in a position to muck
around with letters that really aren't pulling their weight."

For a couple of visiting Thracians there's plenty to admire
about the new Rome: especially the inventions, beyond the imagining
of anybody back home. On the first night we watch television,
there's an advertisement for Pet Savoury Sauce. Straight away we
have a frisson of excitement: surely this is the decadent glory we
had heard so much about, the unspeakable luxuries and eye-popping
customs.

The voice-over points out that humans like to add ketchup or
barbecue sauce to their dinner, so why should dogs miss out? Then
there's the picture of the loving pet owner placing biscuits and
meat in a dog bowl, before adding a large squirt of delicious sauce
on the side.

My mind turns to the poor dogs back home in Thrace, denied this
simple luxury, and a single tear rolls down my check, falling onto
my hessian tunic. What must it be like to live right here, in the
centre of the empire, instead of on its dreary edges? I imagine my
dog, delicately picking up the meat, before dipping into the sauce,
and woofing it down.

Next up, there's an advertisement for an Oral-B Brush Up,
described as a "textured teeth wipe". It's like a fluoridated
condom, which you slip onto your finger in order to clean your
teeth while on the go. I glance up at Jocasta: I think we both now
realise just how busy they are, with an empire to run.

Next up there's an ad for antacid, the first of about 20. Zantac
and Pepcid AC and TUMS Ultra and Alka-Seltzer Extra Strength: the
array of products is breathtaking. But why such a range? Have the
famous vomitoria of Rome been discontinued? Do people still consume
those massive, decadent meals, but now attempt to keep them down,
continually packing the musket with handfuls of TUMS Ultra? I
wonder if the word "Vesuvius" means nothing to them? Still, we take
notes: we know from past experience that these strange new customs
would soon take hold back in dear old Thrace.

The next day we marvel at the serving sizes. We see chocolates
the size of muffins and muffins the size of small loaves. Even
better, every order is greeted with an invitation to upsize - even
in the toy store, where I buy a soft toy, in the shape of a dog,
for a friend with a new baby back in Thrace. "Why only one?" the
salesman says. "Every dog needs a buddy." It's a fair point. But
will my friend be able to afford two lots of the Pet Savoury
Sauce?

Finally, after a few failed attempts, we manage to gain entry to
the inner citadels of the capital. We meet people of great
sophistication, urbanity and kindness, all of them graciously
feigning interest in the latest news from Thrace.

On our last night, we decide to celebrate with a good meal,
sitting down to plates groaning with food - the "junior" steak
hanging off the sides of the plate; the "small" fries piled in a
large mountain. Jocasta settles down to eat the lot, her fork
heavily loaded. "When in Rome..." she says briefly, before she
begins shovelling.

And so we set off for home, after a thrilling trip, with only
one question remaining: will we ever fit back into our old hessian
tunics?